Hold the Door
by a perfectly healthy clown
Summary: He smells like your father's cologne.


He's at the end of the hallway. He's yelling at you to hold the door, waving his hand and smiling like any stranger looking for a favor would. Hold the door please, he says, but you're standing there, utterly frozen for no particular reason. The lift shuts in his face, in your face, and you have to rub your eyes until you see vibrant colors, until you experience vertigo.

* * *

You turn twenty years old in the cafeteria. The seat you're in isn't cushioned, and the plate of food in front you doesn't look good in the slightest. It's a salad. The croutons remind you of soggy bits of cornflakes. You haven't had cereal in a long time.

There is no cake when you turn twenty. There are no cheers, and there is no audience to hear you mumble "Happy Birthday to me" under your breath. You eat your salad and stomach through the soggy croutons. You deserve it, you deserve it.

* * *

He's at the end of the hallway again. He isn't walking this time, isn't yelling at you to hold the door please. His feet are pointing toward each other. A hand is clutching the wall, his face. You can't tell if he's laughing or crying. There is no one around him, but he is at the end of the hallway, and you think about holding the door.

The lift shuts, and you go up, and he stays here shaking with either sobs of happiness or depression. You don't know.

* * *

You sit with your father every afternoon. He's broken his hip. That's why you're trapped here. Your mother holds you prisoner, and your brother doesn't come until late evening, because he hates you, and he wants you to suffer. You're suffering. Save me, you whisper to the nurses as they walk in and check charts and do no real work. One of them's cute. Tall, brown. When your brother comes, he sees you eyeing the nurse, and he calls you disgusting.

The nurse has a smile on his face.

* * *

You like walking around at night. Everything and nothing is happening at once. Screams come from the second floor, and on a detour to the ICU, you hear praying. You don't know what or who they're praying for, but you give them a reassuring nod as you pass. You don't believe in a god.

* * *

He's in the lift this time, and you're down the hallway. You're walking, hands in your pockets, and maybe the look on your face tells him to hold the door and maybe it doesn't, but he holds the door for you and grins like he's done his good deed for the day.

You stand by him. Two feet of space acts like a barrier. He smells like your father's cologne. "Have a good evening," he tells you. He leaves. You're frozen. You push buttons and go through the torture of stopping on each floor. You deserve it.

* * *

He sees you again when you're sitting upside down on a wooden bench. A cigarette is hanging from your lips, and your toes are pointing to the sky. He's staring at you as if this isn't the first odd thing he's seen today.

There are four benches outside. Two facing the door back inside, one of which is where you're lounging. The other two are to the side. The benches form a half wall, a half rectangle. There are bushes and a fountain behind you.

You hear his voice before you hear the fountain run. "Mind if I sit?"

You take the cigarette from your mouth. Ashes fall on your cheek. You have to pretend you don't care. "There are other places to sit." You are the only one out here. It's late. Everyone should be back inside, safe, secure.

"I know." He is beside you now, hands in his lap, an elbow against the arm of the bench. "Can I bum one of those?"

You have one cigarette left. "Yes. Coat."

He reaches into your coat, into your innards, and takes hold of the pack of cigarettes, your lighter. He takes them from you and uses them and drops your lighter and crushes the empty box before your very eyes. You can't believe him, you can't believe who or what he is. He is a mystery, and you want to solve it.

He is holding the cigarette like he hasn't held one in months. "Don't normally smoke."

"I know." You are his neighbor, the boy he runs into every morning as he's getting the post.

"You know."

Your legs swing like a wrecking ball. They come for his head. He doesn't duck, only stares. Your legs are spread open for a second, but he stares at you as if you only have a towel draped around your waist. He wants a peek. You have given him a peek.

It takes a minute for the blood to settle in your body. The ashes on your cheek fall to your thigh. You have to pretend you don't care.

You are sitting next to him. You are taller than him, and he smells like your father's cologne. The lighter on the concrete is smashed. Fluid is running out and into the cigarette box. The folds of the package become mountains for the river. He is quiet. He has stubble across his cheeks, his chin, and he often scratches it. His fingernails are trimmed. You forget how to smoke a cigarette.

"I'll see you later." He litters some more, flicking the end of his cigarette into the dark. His eyes are blue, and they're dropping to your thigh. "Yeah?" His trimmed fingernails make an encore appearance in his facial hair before they're running along your thigh, brushing away the ashes, stroking. Pat, pat, pat, his hand says, but your mind is calling, urging for touch, touch, touch. "See you later?" He squeezes your thigh before he stands.

You forget how to talk. "Zeyater."

He laughs. "Right back at you."

He leaves. You forget how to breathe.

* * *

The cute nurse is talking to you instead of your father. He is talking to you, you look well today, how are you doing, but your father answers, thank you, just fine, thank you, and there you are, sitting in the chair next to your father's bed with your legs spread and wanting something you don't know yet.

The cute nurse is smiling at you. His teeth are white, and his eyes are dark. He's smiling at you like he's won a contest, and you are his prize. You don't know his name, but you consider him a victor.

You like walking around at night. You take the stairs instead of the lift. No one takes the stairs. You are alone as you pace them. Thud, thud, thud goes your shoes, and bang, bang, bang goes the doors you pass through. They are loud. They must be disturbing, distracting to the patients, but you haven't been caught, so you continue doing it.

Up and up you go. You spin on your heel, and down and down you go. You trip once and grab the railing, and you think you're laughing, because you hear laughter, but he is there. He's the one laughing, and he's laughing at you. He's standing at the end of the stairs, on the third floor landing, and he's laughing at you. "Fall much?"

You don't think he's being funny, but you're still laughing. It sores your throat and waters your eyes. "Were you going to catch me?"

He takes a step, up the stairs. His arm brushes against yours, and it's warm, his patched jacket against your wool coat. "Yes." He tells you he has excellent reflexes. The fourth floor calls for him. You want to follow him, but your hand is still on the railing, fingers curling and uncurling. You want to follow him, but you don't follow him. You don't know him, you don't know him.

* * *

He's at the end of the hallway. You're down the hallway. Side by side, you two walk toward the lift. You don't know how it happens, but you are moving in sync with him. Right feet move, and then left. Right and left and right and left. He pushes the up arrow, and you push the floor number. One foot of space is the barrier today, and he continues to smell like your father's cologne.

"Afternoon," he greets, and it's like you're in a rocket that's failed to launch. You're stuck on the moon. He is on Earth and can't see you panicking. "Meant to tell you that earlier, but I was thinking."

"What were you thinking about?" You notice you have only pushed his floor number. You are expecting to follow him like some sort of deer, ears perked and eyes wide. He doesn't give you an answer. When the doors open, and the lift beeps, he leaves, and you have to fabricate what he was thinking about.

You settle on calendars.

* * *

Your father is going to be discharged by the end of the week. Physical therapy is next. You hang your head and hide from the cute nurse.

* * *

You are outside again. It's cold out, and you don't have any cigarettes, but you're sitting out here, and you don't know why. You want to know why. You want to think it's because he is coming outside right now, and you have a sixth sense, but you insist on not believing in nonsense like that. You're sitting out here, and he's taking the seat next to you. The bench creaks and moves, and he doesn't look happy. He has papers in his hand. They're crumpled. Wrinkled. He destroys things.

"Why are you always here?" he asks, acting like you are a thief or a killer who comes back to the scene of the crime.

"My father broke his hip. Fell in the garden. We were planting tomatoes." He hadn't asked for your life story, but you tell him it, and he doesn't mind. "He's being discharged soon. Why are you always here?"

His turn. His feet tap, and the papers in his left hand are squeezed. "Had a baby," he admits with a sigh. His head tilts back. You stare at his Adam's apple. "I didn't have a baby myself, but, you know. Complications. Contractions that weren't really contractions. Last night. It happened last night."

Your heart is falling. You watch his nose twitch, his mustache move. "I suppose congratulations are in order."

He is laughing. It's as loud as a speaker that fills an auditorium. "Oh, no, no, no. It's not my baby. Not my baby at all. My wife—well, soon-to-be ex-wife—was, is a liar." He shows you the papers in his hand. You read them with a faint smile on your face.

"Congratulations?"

"I suppose." You both are deflated balloons on the hospital bench. He blows a raspberry. "You don't have to worry about this for a very long time, yeah? How old are you? Twelve?"

"Twenty."

He sits there. "Eighteen was my actual guess."

"And you were still wrong."

"You look young," he justifies. "Young and posh."

"You look old," you retort.

He laughs. "I am old."

He is forty-two years old, and he smells like your father's cologne. He is wearing a shirt your father has in his closet. When he leaves you, he is scratching his beard with his trimmed fingernails. "I'm going to be a single man tomorrow," he says, and gives you a knowing gaze. He has a secret he thinks you know, but you don't know. You don't know yet.

* * *

The vending machine is buzzing, humming. The light inside is white, but the glass makes it shine blue. It hurts your eyes, so you narrow them, tilt your head to the side. You bounce from the barbecue crisps and the chocolate bar. You don't know what you want. Your stomach is grumbling, and you're hungry, but you don't know what you want.

To your left, the lift opens. You hear feet, two coughs. "Hello."

It's him. Of course it's him. He bumps into you like it's his career. You find him, he finds you, and neither of you mind very much, do you? No, you don't. Of course you don't. He smells like your father's cologne.

"Hello," you softly reply, your fingertips hovering above the keypad. Your eyes skim along the rows of goodies, of sweets, of treats. You don't know what you want. You've already paid, and you could always push the button to get your coins back, but you do know you don't want that.

"How are you?" You don't see him, but you hear him walking toward you. He doesn't have to step far; he was already on his way to start a conversation with you.

"I'm fine." You decide to get a chocolate bar. You watch as the machine gives a violent shake and spits out the candy. When you crouch to get it, you try not to turn your head and marvel the view. Instead of the left, you turn your sights to the right and spy a trash can and a piece of gum that hadn't made it. You return to standing. "How are you?" You have to get your mind off him and his thighs. "How's the single life?"

The wrapper makes an obnoxious noise as you open it. His quiet laughter joins the equation. "Good, I guess." He stares at the chocolate in your hands. Before he asks, you break off a piece and pass it over. He takes it and mumbles his thanks.

"Why are you still here?" you ask, although the question is really personal. You bite into the bar and chew. When you swallow, you hear a dull crackle in your ears.

"I don't know. I said goodbye to my wife yesterday. Said goodbye to the daughter I thought was mine today." He sucks melted chocolate off his thumb.

"Why not on the same day?" You already know the answer. You can read it in his red-rimmed eyes, in the quiver of his hand as he points for another piece of chocolate. You give it to him.

"She died today. Something happened. Should have known, yeah? Must have known."

You don't say anything, just stand there and eat your chocolate, eye another bar and snake your hand into your pocket to see what change you have left. He's doing it for you. He's sticking his hand into your pocket, the backs of your hands touching, your fingers touching, stroking the coins in your pocket, your warm pocket, his warm hand. You think you stop breathing at that very moment, but it's when he retrieves the coins and pushes them into the vending machine. You actually stop breathing when he punches the keypad and smiles and mutters, "Daddy needs his chocolate."

* * *

You think about him a lot. It's mostly bad thoughts. Your brother stares at you like he can read your mind. He was always smarter than you.

* * *

He's at the end of the hallway. He doesn't yell at you to hold the door, because he knows you're going to hold the door. It's an automatic reaction. You have to hold the door, you have to hold the door. Your fingers are outside the lift, spread, tips bent slightly. You're beckoning for him, holding out your hand. Your hand is out, and he touches it when he steps into the lift.

He touches your hand, and then your wrist.

It's happening in slow motion.

His fingers are touching your hand, and then they're wrapping around your wrist. His thumb is against your pulse, pressing, pressing, pressing. You hear him slapping the buttons, and you don't know which one he's pressed. He's pushing your wrist, your hand, your whole body. You're against the lift wall now. It's cold, and you watch the doors close. He's closed the doors. He's closed the doors.

He stares at you, eyes narrowed, lips pressed together. He's amused, watching you squirm along the wall like you desperately have to go to the bathroom. Your wrist is pinned by your head. You twitch and curl your fingers, and he stares at you some more. Nothing is happening. You're against the wall, and he's holding the wrist you had used to reach out toward him, to hold the door. You need to ask what he's doing, but the only sounds you can produce are whimpers, soft, soft whimpers, because he's pressing his body to yours. He's firm, warm, and a terrible influence.

The toes on your foot are slowly rotating to en pointe. You raise your leg, and he catches you, like he had said he would when you tripped on that staircase. He has excellent reflexes. His hand is on the back of your thigh. His palm is sweaty, and you can feel it through your trousers. You can feel a lot through your trousers. He drops your wrist in order to pick up your other leg. It's slow, careful. You can't be quiet. You're touching his shoulders, holding on for dear life.

His hands are squeezing your arse. Your ankles curl around his hips. He stares at you, and he smiles, and he laughs, and it's perfect, it's perfect. It's ice and fire all wrapped in a box with a great bow when he kisses you. It's rough, it's gentle. He's grabbing your arse, your hips, touching everything he can, and you're doing the same. It's tragic, pathetic, and then he starts to move. You move with him. You taste his tongue in your mouth, and he rubs his beard over your cheeks and your neck, and you move with him. All you can smell is your father's cologne and body odor and chocolate, and you think you're dying. You're bouncing against his hips, and you're dying with a stupid prayer of "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy" on your lips. He kisses your prayers. He is God, a magic genie, and he's granting your wishes.

"Yeah, that's right. That's right. You're my perfect boy. You're mine." He bites your ear. "Mine."

You're a teenager again. You're all wobbly knees and a mess in your pants when you exit the lift. He follows you. He is put together, composed, and you are not used to getting off in lifts with a complete stranger. But he isn't a stranger. You don't consider him a stranger. You know him. "I know you." When you talk, the beard burn around your lips hurts.

He is grinning. "And I know you."

* * *

When you meet him on the lift again, he holds your hand. He isn't scared. You're a little nervous. You feel a little better once he takes you outside, sits you down on a bench. He has cigarettes this time. You share one. You can taste him on it.

"Do you like bears?" He scratches his neck. He hasn't trimmed his nails in a while, hasn't shaved either, but you don't want him to do that.

"Bears are okay. I like bees more."

You capture his laugh and replay it whenever you get sad. "Bees, okay." He holds onto your thigh.

* * *

Your father is discharged today. It's in the early afternoon. You can hear birds chirping.

He's standing inside the gift shop by the entrance of the hospital. You walk in there and stand next to him. "My father's being discharged today."

"Yeah, I remember you telling me." His eyes are on a stuffed animal display. He's going to buy you something. "Bees, right?" There's a bee stuffie in the back, on the shelf with the rest of the rejects.

"Bees."

He's fiddling with the buttons on your coat. The bee is in your pocket. "Will I see you again?"

"I don't know."

He frowns, so he's sad. He's sad, so he frowns. He's going to miss you, and you're going to miss him. But you don't know him, so how can you miss him?

He sticks a piece of paper with the bee stuffie, pats your pocket right after. "I'll see you again."

"You don't know that." Your voice is shaking.

"Yes, I do."

As he kisses you goodbye, you swear you hear violins playing. The floor is breaking underneath you, crumpling away bit by bit, an inch at a time. You're going to fall soon. You're on thin ice.

He walks out the doors without a look back at you. It makes you sad, so you stuff your hand in your pocket and touch the bee, grab the scrap of paper. His number is on it. You think it smells like your father's cologne. It's stupid to think, but you still think it. You think it, because you miss him. You miss him.

You realize you don't know his name.

You don't even know his name.


End file.
